


Do Androids Dream of Electric Coffee?

by WingedPegasus



Category: Garage Spaceship
Genre: Coffeeshop AU, Comedy, Friendship, Gen, interdimensional rifts?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2019-06-17 20:51:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15469806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedPegasus/pseuds/WingedPegasus
Summary: "Unfortunately, saying 'no' to people isn’t a particularly strong suit of mine. Which is how, despite my staggering ignorance of the intricacies of the coffee bean, I had become the newest employee at my aunt’s coffeeshop. Now serving: espresso, americano, scones, and bon pain. The pain is fresh; I provide it myself."She’s a sardonic, misanthropic barista who doesn’t know the first thing about coffee. He’s an intergalactically famous android pop star (according to him), and a pale weirdo with an unhealthy predilection for glittery outfits (according to her). This is the coffeeshop where worlds collide. (And THIS is the summary full of cheesy tropes!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Forksalesperson](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Forksalesperson).



> This is another fic featuring the wonderful android OC belonging to heather-draws-things, and this time it's a gift for forksalesperson (both from tumblr). The setting is a 1980s retrofuturistic space station. This story isn't finished yet, but I'm posting it in pieces so I can work up the motivation to actually get it done. xD Enjoy!

Making coffee has never been one of my strong suits. Sure, I had the basics down: beans plus water equals hot bean water, plus enough sugar and cream to put a mid-size horse in a diabetic coma. (Incidentally, that’s about the minimum necessary to disguise the fact that your morning cup of caffeine, when left unadulterated, tastes like hot moose lip.) When you start adding in the fancy jargon, though—that’s where you lose me. I can’t tell a mochaccino from a frappalatte, or a french press from a bench press.

At this point, you might be wondering where all this is going. (A familiar question. It always comes up when I start thinking about my life.)

Unfortunately, saying “no” to people isn’t a particularly strong suit of mine either. Which is how, despite my staggering ignorance of the intricacies of the coffee bean, I had become the newest employee at my aunt’s coffeeshop. Now serving: espresso, americano, scones, and _bon pain_ . The pain is fresh; I provide it myself.

* * *

  
I stared helplessly the dizzying array of levers, buttons and switches before me. A quick glance at the printed manual to my left did nothing to alleviate my confusion. I wiped nervously at the sweat forming on my brow, all too aware that my time was running out.

“It’s just a macchiato, Trisha,” my coworker’s voice came from right behind me, and I jumped. “It’s not like you’re defusing a bomb.”

“Easy for you to say,” I grumbled. Throwing caution to the wind, I stabbed at a likely-looking button and jumped when steaming hot milk came frothing out of the machine. Of course, it was two spigots to the _left_ of where I was apprehensively holding the intended receptacle.

“Whoever designed this should be shot,” I muttered.

“What was that?”

I pasted on a smile. “I think I need to pull a new shot,” I said in a fakely cheerful voice. “Last time it took this long to serve a drink there was a complaint about how bitter it was.” _If you didn’t want something bitter, you should’ve have ordered coffee,_ I tacked on sourly in my head. I dumped the cooled shot of espresso in the sink and started over. We were getting to be old friends, that sink and I.

A few minutes later, I had assembled something the approximate color and consistency of coffee, if you ignored the lumps. (If you’re wondering where the lumps came from—well, so am I.) I used a stirrer to poke at one of them, then rapidly covered the whole concoction with a travel lid before it had time to rise back to the top.

“Order 23,” I called out. “Your…”

I looked down at the cup. Somehow, it just didn’t seem fair to call whatever was in there ‘coffee.’

“...‘drink’ is ready,” I finished.

An exhausted looking individual shuffled forward and took the cup from the counter, immediately raising it to their lips. _Crap._ I’d really hoped they wouldn’t try it until they were at least seven blocks away. I broke into a cold sweat as the caffeine zombie chugged half the drink right in front of me. To my great surprise, instead of spewing the coffee back out or screaming for my manager (both have already happened in my brief and unfortunate tenure as a barista; once simultaneously), she sighed contentedly and gave me a benevolent smile.

As she left, I gave two silent prayers—one of thanks, and another for her taste buds.

A moment after her departure, the door jingled pleasantly to announce the arrival of more customers. I glared vindictively at the small bells placed over the door frame before glancing at the arrivals: two muscular men in dark suits and sunglasses, preceded by a lanky, pale man who inevitably wore something shiny or glittery or both. Ah. Sparkles was here.

That wasn’t his name, of course. I didn’t quite know what his name _was_ , actually, despite his frequent appearances in our humble monument to liquid caffeine. Not every morning, but more often than not, Sparkles would show up with his entourage and order two large black coffees—one for each of the suited gorillas, but never anything for himself.

‘Gorillas’ might be an unfair way to describe the two men, but (a) my inner monologue has never been particularly concerned with fairness, and (b) anyone would have a tendency to look musclebound and clumsy next to the slender grace and easy charm of Sparkles. He had a smoothness to his walk that naturally drew your eyes to him, and the kind of killer jawline that made you want to keep them there. The most succinct way to describe him would probably be ‘unfairly attractive.’

Not that I was concerned with describing him, of course. The only reason I kept looking in his direction was all those distracting sparkles on his jacket.  


* * *

 

“Son of a _biscuit!_ ” --I did not say, but it was similar. I try to avoid swearing except in the heat of the moment, and scalding one’s hand uniquely qualifies as a heated moment. I screwed my eyes shut and waited for the pain to pass.

“Are you all right?” a pleasant, concerned voice asked from close by. _Too_ close by. I opened my eyes to see Sparkles leaning over the tall counter to see what was wrong, his ridiculous hair brushing the ridiculous slender curve of his ridiculous jawline.

At this close range, the first thing I noticed about him was the fact that he had yellow eyes. (A romantic person may have described them as limpid, honey-colored pools so deep and wise and innocent they could drown in them, but I am not a romantic person. I observe romantic people from a distance, and correct their grammar.) The second thing I noticed was that his hand appeared to be resting quite comfortably on the Angry Bean-Steaming Machine which had, mere seconds before, rendered my hand the approximate color of boiled lobster.

“ _Oh dear,”_ a normal person would have thought. _“I must warn him before he’s seriously hurt,”_ or perhaps, _“doesn’t he look attractive when he’s concerned?”_

Instead, I just said: “Huh.”

At least wondering why your strangest customer is immune to heat and/or pain takes your mind off your own. He finally noticed I was staring a hole in his hand and snatched it off the Burninator 3000, having the decency to look a little sheepish.

“Sorry,” he said. “I guess customers aren’t supposed to touch?”

“No, but they’re generally supposed to burn if they _do_ touch,” I remarked. The confusion and slight concern that crossed his annoyingly attractive face made me realize my tone.

“Er, I mean, why didn’t your hand get burned?” I amended. “That thing’s hotter than the surface of the sun.”

I looked him over once again—body mods aren’t uncommon, but oddly pale skin and strangely colored eyes can mean other things when you live on a space station.

“Are you human?”

“Hey!” one of my coworkers hissed. “You can’t just _ask_ someone if they’re human!”

“Oh, hush,” I said. “He doesn’t mind.” In fact, Sparkles seemed rather amused by the whole exchange.

“Not at all. You’re right--” he paused to read my nametag “--Trisha, I’m not human. I’m an android.”

“Pffha!” He had to be joking. I’d been to the latest robotics expo, even the most advanced prototypes looked like someone made a marionette with an Erector set and then stretched a silicone face over it.

“No you’re not.”

He had the gall to look hurt at that. “Yes I am!”

I didn’t know why it bothered me, but if he was going to lie, he should at least make it convincing.

“No, you’re not!”

“Yes, I _am_!”

“No, you’re _not_!”

“For goodness sake, I—here, look!” He reached up and pulled back one of his sleeves to display the smooth skin of his forearm. Then he pressed on something near his elbow, and part of his skin turned translucent, displaying glowing circuitry beneath.

My eyes nearly bugged out of my head. “It’s a diagnostic viewport--” he started to say, but before I knew what I was doing, I had reached out and yanked his sleeve back down to cover his glowing arm. Even a layman like me knew something like that shouldn’t be waved around in public.

“Holy Moses,” I breathed. “What are you?”

“I _told_ you. I’m an android.”

...Oh. Of course. Why hadn’t I seen it earlier? “Okay,” I laughed nervously. “So you’ve got some kind of fancy prosthetic. Nice going. ‘I’m an android,’ freak people out, ha ha.”

He didn’t say anything, just stared at me incredulously. “What would it take to convince you?” he said, half to himself. “It’s not like I have any reason to lie about it.”

“Listen pal, I don’t care _why_ you’re lying, you just _are_ . No droids in the galaxy are half as advanced as the tech in your fake arm there. _Nobody’s_ seen anything on that scale for a full android—especially not one so...”--I looked him over again, taking in his natural stance, annoying face, perfect hair, expressive voice--“...realistic.”

“Sure they have!” he countered. He leaned over and whispered, as if sharing a secret. “Millions have, in fact.” He gave a conspiratorial wink. A perfect curl fell across his perfect eye, and I suppressed the urge to punch his perfect face.

“Millions of people have seen _you,”_ I deadpanned.

He just continued grinning.

“What, on Galaxy’s Most Wanted?”

His grin widened. “Very funny!”

I stared at him.

The grin drooped slightly.

“You… you really have no idea who I am?”

“No…” I started inching my hand toward the can of Space Mace I kept tucked into my belt. (I hadn’t encountered a reason to use it yet, although the temptation to add a little “spice” to certain customers’ cappuccinos was, at times, overwhelming.) “Should I?”

“I’m Ambrose,” he said, emphasizing the name slightly.

Clearly, he thought that should mean something. My fingers closed around the smooth canister of Space Mace, and I maintained eye contact with the impassivity and emotional range of a dead fish.

He pointed at himself with his expensive arm. “Adonis?”

I stopped just short of drawing the canister. Huh. That name _did_ sound vaguely familiar.

Frustration colored his features. “I’m a pop star! The most famous one in the galaxy!”

My coworker shot me her world-famous stink-eye at the outburst. “Tell your boyfriend to keep it down, would you?”

I turned as red as my burned hand and violently waved her off. “No, no, he’s _not—_ ”

She ignored me and gestured at my hand. “And hurry up and get that taken care of—orders are piling up.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose for a second, and was interrupted by the sight of Ambrose gaping.

“Boyfr—” he threw his hands up in the air, “How does _no one_ in this coffee shop know who I am? Did I step into a dimensional pocket?” He glanced around. “I didn’t see the normal indicators, but--”

“Well, that would explain why time passes five times slower in here than anywhere else,” I muttered. “No,” I said louder, in the placating tone I kept reserved for small children and Very Important Businessmen who couldn’t _possibly_ wait three minutes for their extra-large frappawhatever, with enough fancy milks and flavored syrups to make what had once been a respectable shot of espresso quiver in fear. “We just don’t listen to a lot of music here.”

“You don’t listen to a lot of music.”

I nodded.

“In a _coffeeshop._ ”

I shrugged.

He leaned over the counter and pointed upward. “One of my songs is playing _right now._ ”

I raised an eyebrow. “...Huh.”

Honestly, I’m not sure if it’s possible for an android—highly advanced or not—to have an aneurysm, but judging from his expression, he came about as close as humanly possible.

Or, you know. Android-ly possible.


	2. Interlude - The Bodyguards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still working on the next chapter, so I thought I'd throw this tiny segment up. It was for a tumblr challenge to write something that’s already happened from another character’s perspective. 
> 
> Hope to have a real chapter up in the next few days! <3

“Uh-oh,” Dmitri said, nodding his head toward where Ambrose stood waiting for his coffee order. Behind the counter, the young barista hand was tightly gripping her hand—must’ve just burned it, Tony thought—and looking like she was about to combust with the effort of not swearing in front of customers. “Looks like the drinks are gonna be a little late.”

Dmitri grunted, observing Ambrose lean over the counter to check on the girl.

“Think we should go over there?” he rumbled. 

“Nah,” Tony replied. “Kid could use some socialization that doesn’t involve teenage girls screaming at him on a stage.”

Dmitri nodded and checked his watch.

“Don’ worry,” Tony said. “I always build a little extra time into our morning schedule. Ya never know what’s gonna happen with this guy.” 

Still, Tony spared a glance toward the vintage clock that adorned the far wall of the shop. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ambrose speaking animatedly—was he arguing with the girl? An instant later, Ambrose pulled up his sleeve and gestured at something on his forearm. Tony half-jumped out of his chair. What was the idiot doing? Before he could move to stop him, the girl had reached across the counter and yanked the android's sleeve down to hide his arm. Tony sank back into his chair with an exasperated sigh. Leave it to a clumsy barista to have more common sense than the wildly successful, yet surprisingly naive pop star he was trying to protect. As much as he appreciated the gesture of free coffee, every minute spent in public with this character felt like it took another year off his life.

He looked toward Dmitri. The man was still staring at his wrist, having missed the entire exchange. He tapped experimentally on his watch. 

“Think is broken,” he muttered.

Tony pinched his brow and sighed. If his coffee wasn’t ready yet, he’d better make it a double.


	3. Chapter 3

A couple days later, I was taking coffee orders when a flash of purple from the next customer caught my eye. I looked up to see Mr. Roboto standing at the counter with a pleasant grin on his artificially pale face. _It must take ages to apply all that makeup_ , I thought to myself. I had to give him credit, he was committed to the whole android act.

 

“Trisha!” He flashed a smile. If we hadn’t only just met, I could almost believe he was happy to see me. “Good to see you. How’s the hand?”

 

I wiggled my bandaged fingers. “Not bad.” It still hurt, but it should be better in a week or so. “You should see the other guy,” I quipped.

 

A quizzical expression crossed his face, and I couldn’t help but think of a confused puppy. I glanced upward to Sparkles’ tower of impeccably styled curls, and revised my mental image to a poodle. A friendly, black-haired poodle with golden eyes and a purple rhinestone collar… I choked on a laugh and decided to cancel mental images for the rest of the day.

 

Back in the real world, my newest puppy—er, customer—was still processing my offhand remark.

 

“The other… but didn’t you burn your hand on that….thingy?” he nodded toward the gleaming chrome carapace of my mortal enemy.

 

“It’s not—I was just—oh, nevermind. What can I get you?”

 

“Two black coffees, please!” he requested with his typical cheerful courtesy.

 

“You got it.” I punched in the order. “And for you?”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yeah. You always order for you buddies over there,” I glaced toward where his two muscular companions sat waiting, “but never for yourself. Why not?”

 

He blinked. “I told you, I’m an android. Food and liquids don’t really work for me.”

 

I leveled him with a cool stare.

 

“Not buying it.”

 

“No need!” he responded, procuring a credit chip from his pocket with a theatrical flourish. “I’m the one doing the buying.” He had the audacity to wink.

 

I glared as I swiped the chip.

 

* * *

 

 

About five minutes and twelve curses at the coffee machine later, I had prepared three cups of something approximating coffee. (By which I mean it was brown, hot, and probably not gravy.)

 

“Order #51!” I called out.

 

Sparkles slid over the pick-up counter with the kind of cheerful enthusiasm that should be considered a criminal offense before 10AM. When he saw the drink carrier, he pulled up short.

 

“Uh, Trisha?”

 

“Yeah?

 

“There are three coffees here,” he said, pointing.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I only ordered two.”

 

“So?”

 

“So… there’s an extra one?”

 

“Wow,” I said, feigning amazement. “You’ve convinced me! With superior math skills like those, there’s no _way_ you’re not an android.”

 

He squinted. “I get the feeling you don’t actually believe me.”

 

“Now you’re gettin’ it.” I sighed. “One of those is for you, okay? On the house. Don’t worry about it.”

 

“But… I really can’t _do_ coffee,” he objected.

 

“Look, I got one of my coworkers to make you a caramel latte,” I said. “Those things are 90% sugar and milk. You can barely taste the coffee.”

 

He opened his mouth to protest.

 

“Just try it, okay?” I cut him off. It was too early in the morning for his innocent altruism. If he was going to happily order drinks for his friends for weeks, the least he deserved was a free latte. Especially since, well… it was kind of nice of him to remember my name.

 

Not that I cared, of course.

 

He finally gave in with a shake of his head. “Well, thanks,” he said, taking the drink carrier. “It’s nice of you to think of me.” He smiled.

 

_It’s a very nice smile,_ a tiny voice said inside my head. I stuffed a sock in its mouth.

 

“No problem.”

 

* * *

 

 

Orders started piling in after that exchange, but whenever I had the chance, I snuck a glance over to his table to see if he actually drank his coffee. The cup sat untouched in front of him for about five minutes. I felt a twinge of annoyance—and, oddly, disappointment. The beefier of his two friends caught me looking and subtly elbowed Sparkles in the side. At least, I _think_ it was supposed to be subtle, but his target jumped out of his seat at the jab. MuscleMan #1 nodded in my direction, and Sparkles turned my way. I quickly averted my gaze and pretended to be fascinated by a canister of vanilla syrup.

 

When I glanced up a second later, Sparkles was still looking at me. He gave me a small wave and one of those smiles that might make more susceptible individuals forget their own name.

 

But he _still_ didn’t drink his coffee.

 

I put down the container of syrup with considerably more force than necessary.

 

Thus began a sequence of events that could perhaps be described as “militant generosity.” I had gone through the effort of creating and/or obtaining what was, by all accounts, perfectly drinkable (and possibly even enjoyable) coffee for that heinously polite android man—for _free—_ and by gum, he was going to _enjoy_ it. I tried every drink I could think of—peppermint mocha, caramel latte, espresso, frozen coffee, hot tea, iced tea, herbal tea—if it could be brewed, stewed, or herbally imbued, I served it. None of them worked. The most I could do was pressure him into accepting them. Granted, it was only after a series of earnest and unsuccessful protests, but inevitably, he would cave and accept with a perplexed smile. This acceptance was subsequently followed by (a) trying to leave his untouched drink at another customer’s table, (b) surreptitiously swapping his full cup for his friend’s empty one, or (c) lifting the cup to his mouth and faking a drink, followed by an overly theatrical smile and a big thumbs up. That last one never worked. Apparently, no one had told this guy that if you actually do take a drink, you can’t smile the instant the cup leaves your lips without the contents of your mouth spilling out through your teeth.

 

Honestly, he was such a weirdo that I could almost believe he actually _was_ an android.

 

If, of course, that hadn’t been completely impossible.

 

* * *

 

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously at the cup of coffee I had just created. It had the right color, the right consistency, and—I took an experimental sip—the right taste, if you liked that sort of thing. Too bad it was also 90% foam. I tilted the cup into the sink and watched a pathetic dribble of coffee trickle out, leaving the majority of of the cup’s contents inside like a brownish, caffeinated cloud.

 

The shop’s bell tinkled pleasantly to announce the arrival of a customer—unnecessarily, since it was immediately followed by the customer announcing himself.

 

“Good morning, Trisha!”

 

Good golly. Even his _voice_ was so bright you almost needed sunglasses.

 

I, however, was not in the mood. Things had recently come to a head in the ongoing battle of woman versus self-claimed machine. On his prior visit, Sparkles had deposited his “empty” cup in the trash receptacle nearest the exit—which would have been a flawless plan but for two crucial details: One, my coworker had forgotten to put a bag in said receptacle the previous night; and two, I was the lucky sod on trash duty that day. I spent fifteen minutes mopping up peppermint mocha flavored refuse and soggy muffin crumbs while plotting his demise. It was almost therapeutic. (I figured a fork in a power socket would fry human or android with equal efficiency.)

 

I pasted on a smile. “Morning, Sp—er,” I stopped just short of saying my mental nickname for him aloud, and scrambled rapidly through my memory for his real name. “…Ambrose,” I finished. I studiously ignored the way he perked up at the use of his name and focused on being polite. Very polite. _Too_ polite. “What can I get for you?”

 

“Two black coffees, please,” he requested, as always. I could see his two muscular friends taking their seats at a small round table with a view of both the counter and the entrance. They dwarfed the chairs.

 

“Anything _else_?” I asked sweetly.

 

“No, thank you.”

 

“You’re _sure_?”

 

“Yes.” His slight but ever-present grin never left his face. I don’t think he even realized I was trying to pressure him.

 

Infuriating man.

 

I stabbed a few buttons on the console. “Order number 31, pick up at the end of the counter,” I grumbled, dropping my overly-polite act.

 

His order was up quickly; even I could manage to pour black coffee into two large cups without incident. I called out the number and Sparkles stepped up to the counter.

 

He went to pick up the drinks and stopped short.

 

“Only two this time?” he asked.

 

“That’s what you ordered, isn’t it?” I asked innocently.

 

“Well, yeah, but--” his face lit up. “Does this mean you believe me?”

 

I shot him a look.

 

“Guess not, huh.” He picked up the two drinks with an air of dejection, and I found myself unreasonably frustrated. I would not feel bad for him. I would _not._ After all, _he_ was the one being rude by repeatedly refusing my generosity, right?

 

The voice in my head remained stubbornly silent.

 

Right?

 

“Of course right,” I muttered under my breath. I filled a cup and stepped out from behind the counter. Time for plan Z.

 

Exuding an air of self-righteous confidence than diminished with each step I took, I stalked over to Sparkles’ table and forcefully set down the cup. A small splash of clear liquid sloshed over the side. If I had been paying closer attention, I would have noticed his two enormous friends tense and half-rise from their chairs at my unexpected approach, but I was far too focused on my target.

 

He blinked at the cup, then me, in surprise. “Trisha?”

 

“Water,” I stated.

 

“...Pardon?”

 

“That is purified, room temperature water served in a sparkling clean cup. No caffeine, no carbonation, no flavor, no _problem.”_ I narrowed my eyes at him. “Drink it.”

 

He gulped.

 

“Trisha...” he started.

 

“Drink. It.”

 

“I… I really can’t...”

 

I raised my eyebrows and pointed emphatically at the cup.

 

With a deep sigh, he reached for the cup. His friends looked at each other. Slowly, and with far more trepidation than an innocent glass of water had any right to inspire, he brought the cup to his lips. He paused and glanced at me. I raised my eyebrows expectantly. He slowly tilted the cup, then put it back on the table with his mouth closed.

 

He stared at me.

 

I waited.

 

His adam’s apple bobbed.

 

“There,” I said. “That wasn’t too hard.”

 

He shook his head, mouth still shut.

 

I turned to leave, wondering why instead of feeling victorious, I just felt sort of… guilty. In the back of my mind, I registered Sparkles’ chair scraping across the floor as he stood up, but remained lost in thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have forced him to do that. I mean, he’s clearly not an android, but he must have some other reason for not wanting to drink anything. I should have realized that instead of getting wrapped up in a petty desire to prove my point. I turned around again, registering a flash of purple glitter near one of the taller potted plants we kept in the shop. I rapidly walked over.

 

“Hey,” I said.

 

He looked up with a panicked and sort of guilty expression that I was too preoccupied to notice.

 

“I’m sorry,” I rushed out. “I shouldn’t have made you do that, I’m sure you have your own reasons for not accepting the drinks and it was rude of me to force it on you and--” I suddenly broke off as I finally processed what I had seen him doing.

 

Specifically, spitting out a mouthful of water into the plant.

 

I raised a finger to point at the plant. “Did you really…?”

 

His eyes darted to the side. “I, uh,” he began. “I was just talking to the plant! I, er—I read it’s good for them.” He patted a leaf awkwardly. “Good plant,” he affirmed.

 

For a moment, we just stared at each other.

 

Then I burst out laughing.

 

“Good grief, Sparkles,” I wheezed. “You’re really something else.”

 

He perked up. “You’re not upset?”

 

“No, no,” I assured him. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a jerk. I promise not to force any more free drinks on you.” I raised my hand, palm up. “Scout’s honor.”

 

“And I promise not to drink them,” he said cheerfully. “ _Android’s_ honor.” He stuck out his hand toward me.

 

I shook my head with a grin, then grasped his hand to seal the deal. “Don’t press your luck, Astroboy.”


	4. Chapter 4

 

 _Today,_ I thought to myself as I wrung several ounces of decidedly unsanitary mop water out of my left trouser leg, _was really not my day._

 

It really should have been a good day, too. The station was about to pass by the Kupier belt for the first time in years, which meant a spectacular light show as little bits of space rock and debris burn up and streak past our outer shields. I’d been looking forward to it for weeks. I hadn’t seen it since I was a kid, and, well… childish as it may sound, I was excited. Excited enough not to sleep very well last night.

 

When I finally _did_ fall asleep; that’s when the bad day started: I’d had one of those dreams where you wake up late for an exam in a class you’d never attended. Then I woke up for real and remembered with relief I was working, not going to school—and then I realized I forgot to set my alarm last night and was late for work.

 

Then my transpod didn’t start.

 

After my technical troubleshooting strategy (kicking the engine block and swearing like a sailor) proved ineffective, I remembered with no small amount of panic that I had less than five minutes to reach the bus stop. The fastest sprint of my life somehow got me there with zero seconds to spare—but of course, there were no seats left except between a baby who screamed like it was auditioning for a pre-K metal band and a man who apparently viewed the concept of “personal hygiene” as a distant, theoretical construct.

 

When I finally did arrive at work, fifteen minutes late and with at least three decibels of hearing loss, my aunt chewed me out for being late during the Monday morning rush and ordered me to clean up the large caramel latte someone had decided would look better on the floor.

 

Then a wheel on the mop bucket broke and sloshed dirty water all over my leg and into my shoe.

 

The universe was really kicking my ass today.

 

As I was tilting a steady trickle of water out of my shoe back into the bucket, I heard the distant jingle of the doorbell, followed by a co-worker shouting “Trisha! Customer!”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled, “Keep your shirt on.”

 

I washed the mop water off my hands and squished miserably over to the cashier station.

 

“Good morning,” I lied, punching my ID into the station. “What can I get you?”

 

“Hello, Trish!” A bright voice rang out. I looked up to the customer for the first time, and felt my foul mood recede a bit.

 

“Hey, Sparkles,” I found myself smiling.

 

It had been a few weeks since I’d stopped trying to convince—er, force—him to drink coffee, and Sparkles had become a regular customer in the interim. Whenever he came in, I found myself making an excuse to wipe off tables near where he sat, and we usually ended up talking until my aunt or a co-worker shot a sufficiently dirty look our way. The topics of our conversation varied, but we usually came back to inventing absurd life stories for the other occupants of the coffeeshop or coming up with terrible new coffee combinations—many of which I had already made, accidentally or otherwise. I found myself looking forward to the days when he stopped by.

 

I glanced to one side and saw his two compatriots taking their usual seat at a far table. “The usual?” I asked.

 

He flashed one of those million-credit smiles. “Thanks.” He shot me a glance as he handed over his credit chip. “You okay? You look a little… stressed.”

 

I sighed, swiping the chip and handing it back to him. “You have no idea.” I could have gone on for an hour, but I decided to give him the short version. “My transpod broke down this morning, so I had to run five blocks to catch the last bus.”

 

“Ooh.” He winced in sympathy. “Why not take the LevRail? It’s way faster than the bus.”

 

I shot him a quizzical look. “LevRail?”

 

“You know, the superconductive levitating rail system. Everyone takes it.”

 

I scoffed. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

 

“It is!” he agreed amicably, either completely missing or completely ignoring my sarcasm.

 

“Wait a second,” I said, fragments of half-forgotten news articles floating into my mind. “Hey, I remember reading a historical tech article about LevRail! It was going to be the transportation network of the future, but the whole project stalled out when the inventor died in an accident with the first pods.”

 

Ambrose blinked. “No, he didn’t.”

 

I raised an eyebrow and was about refute his statement when a nasally voice broke in.

 

“What does it take to get a coffee around here?” a man in a tailored suit complained loudly.

 

I blinked twice, restoring my mental software to factory settings with one blink and loading “CustomerService.exe” with the next. I barely registered Ambrose stepping to the side and shooting the man a dirty look.

 

I plastered a fake smile over my cracking facade. “My apologies, sir. What can I get for you?”

 

“I need a large nonfat mocha, four shots and no whip. But please, only if you can fit ‘doing your job’ into your busy schedule,” he said sarcastically.

 

I clenched my teeth so hard I thought I felt something crack.

 

“Certainly, sir,” I smiled, swiping his credit chip. I didn’t even know they _came_ in gold plate.

 

“Your order number is sixty-seven; please wait at the pickup counter,” I said.

 

“No.”

 

I stopped short. “I’m sorry?”

 

“It’s seven in the morning and I haven’t had my coffee yet; you expect me to remember a _number_?” He demanded in a tone that made it sound like I had asked him to stand on his head and recite the Hydraxian alphabet backwards.

 

“Sir,” I began. He cut me off, and I was almost glad of it since I had no idea what I was going to say next. The idea of a grown man not being able to remember a two-digit number had triggered a miniature existential crisis. I wondered if the human race had truly made it off the planet at all, or if my life on a space station had all been some fevered hallucination brought on by stress and excessive consumption of chocolate sandwich cookies.

 

“The least—the _least!_ \--you could do is call me by _name_ when it’s ready,” my customer lectured, his derisive voice serving as an unwelcome anchor to reality.

 

“Sir,” I tried again. “The management considered using names, but it’s much slower and less accurate than--”

 

“Why should it be slower? You already know my name.”

 

I blinked in confusion. “Why? Do we know each other?”

 

The look he gave me was most akin to the look one gave a wad of gum stuck to the bottom of their shoe.

 

“Know you _?_ ” he sneered. “I should think not. What have _you_ done that matters?”

 

I really _was_ having a bad day. Normally, derision like that wouldn’t provoke any reaction other than the strong urge to punch his pompous face into next week, but instead, all I felt was a deep desire to crawl in a hole and not see another human for at least eighty-four years.

 

“Listen, you pathetic little bean-peddler,” he continued. “Don’t you have any idea who I am?”

 

I hadn’t, of course, but I had the sneaking suspicion I was about to find out.

 

“My name,” he said, drawing himself up and placing special emphasis on each word, “is Eugene Carlyle Hickenbottom the Third.”

 

_Pfft._

 

“I’m terribly sorry,” I said gravely, immediately regretting the words. Fortunately, his ego was so large it seemed to obstruct his intellect, and he interpreted my words as an apology for not recognizing him.

 

“Well. See you don’t forget it.”

 

“I don’t think I could,” I muttered.

 

Eugene Carlyle Hickenbottom the Third stalked off to the pickup counter, his name trailing behind him.

 

Ambrose leaned over the counter toward me. “What do you think his story is?” he whispered conspiratorially. “Dropped on his head as a child? Raised by a gilded dragon who never showed him love?”

 

I stifled a laugh. “Solid options. Hey, do you mind if I make his coffee first? He might sue to shop if he has to wait more than forty seconds.”

Ambrose shook his head. “No, please! It’ll make everyone happier to have him out of here.”

 

A short moment later, I had produced a hot beverage that looked right, smelled right, and probably even tasted right. I was actually kind of proud of it.

 

“Order num—” I started to call out, then caught myself with an awkward cough. “Order for _Eugene Carlyle Hickenbottom_ ,” I amended.

 

He stood three feet away from me, poking at the screen of his comm.

 

“...the Third?” I tacked on.

 

He glanced at the cup, then at me.

 

“That’s not mine,” he said.

 

I looked at the cup.

 

“I’m pretty sure it is.”

 

“No, it isn’t.” He went back to his comm.

 

“Large, four-shot, non-fat mocha?”

 

Suit heaved a theatrical sigh and shoved his comm in his pocket.

 

“Large, non-fat mocha with four shots and _no whip_ ,” he emphasized. He picked up a stirring stick and lifted the cup to eye level. With a deliberate motion, he used the stirrer to flick the entire mound of whipped cream off the cup and onto the counter directly in front of me, where it splattered onto my apron. He cocked his head to one side.

 

“Does that look like no whip to you?”

 

I found I had nothing to say. Some part of me wanted nothing more than to break his smug face, but an equal part of me knew I couldn’t do anything except smile to a customer without incurring the wrath of my manager-slash-aunt—and still another part of me was strangely saddened that one of my very few coffee successes had been so casually destroyed.

 

“Well, it does now,” Sparkles interrupted casually.

 

Suit gave Ambrose’s glittery attire and odd-colored features an unimpressed glance. “This is none of your business.” He turned back to me.

 

“Freak,” he muttered under his breath. “Now,” he said, pointing at the cup he still held, “What are you going to do about this?”

 

“Excuse me,” Ambrose tapped Suit on his shoulder, and the man jerked his arm away and adjusted his jacket.

 

“Don’t touch me, _Saturday Night Fever._ This suit costs more than you do.”

 

Ambrose smiled. “I really doubt that. Hey, has anyone ever told you you’re an incredibly attractive man with a great personality?”

 

“No?”

 

“I’m not surprised.”

 

Oh, I could tell he was ticked now. Suit turned toward him, nodding like he was about to teach him a lesson.

 

“You want a piece of me?”

 

Ambrose put up one hand and held the other to his stomach. “Oh no, I couldn’t. I’m on a strict no-egotistical-baboons diet.”

 

“How DARE you—”

 

“—no no, you’re right, I should apologize. That was statement was unfair. To baboons.”

 

That did it. Without warning, Suit threw the full cup of coffee into Ambrose’s face and used the distraction to throw a sucker punch straight to his gut. Or, at least, that’s what it looked like. The result, oddly enough, was Suit doubled over his hand in pain and swearing a blue streak while Ambrose calmly lifted a coffee-soaked clump of hair out of his eyes.

 

“And I just got this done, too,” he sighed.

 

Ambrose suddenly drew himself up and struck a stage pose, holding an invisible microphone in one hand and pointing to Suite with the other.

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen—Eugene Carlyle Hickenbottom the _Third!_ Wasn’t he great! Come on, give him a hand!” Then, in a stage whisper: “He’s gonna need one!”

 

Titters of laughter ran through the few stunned occupants of the coffeeshop, and the sound enraged Suit enough to forget about his hand. The second Ambrose turned his back, he growled and rushed forward to tackle him—but somehow, Ambrose knew he was coming. He slipped a few inches to one side and stuck out a leg. Suit tripped over it, careened into chair, then ricocheted off to land solidly in the garbage bin nearest the door.

 

It was then that the door to my aunt’s office burst open.

 

“What the blazes is going on in here?!” she demanded, surveying the mess before her in disbelief.

 

Ambrose spun toward her. “Ah, madam,” he bowed. “I believe the trash is ready to be taken out.”

 

* * *

 

A few rushed sentences of explanation later, Suit had been evicted from the premises with the metaphorical imprint of my aunt’s size ten boot on his rear. (The imprint was metaphorical, but the boots were not. She was an intimidating woman with footwear to match.)

 

My aunt gave Ambrose’s dripping hair and coffee-stained clothes a critical glance, then grabbed one of our novelty t-shirts off a nearby shelf and pressed it into his arms. “Here. Take this.”

 

“Ah. Thank you?”

 

“You’re welcome. Now stop dripping on my floor.” She stalked back to her office.

 

Ambrose unfolded the shirt and held it up to his shoulders. It was a simple black shirt with the words “Caution: Contents HOT” screened on the front. The “O” had been replaced with a steaming coffee cup.

 

He struck a pose. “How do I look?”

 

I laughed. “The height of fashion. But Ambrose! You were _amazing!_ ” I practically bounced with glee. “I had no idea you had it in you. That was the best thing I’ve seen in my life.”

 

“Oh, honey,” he said suavely, leaning against the counter. “I’m full of surprises.” He winked.

 

I stared at him and burst out laughing. “Does actually work?”

 

He looked mildly hurt. “Usually.” His expression shifted to contemplative. “Although I’m not really sure why.”

 

“It’s the wink,” I teased.

 

“Really?” he winked rapidly a few more times as though testing it out, which just gave the impression he had something stuck in his eye.

 

“Listen,” I said, slightly hesitantly. “Thank you. For what you did.” I poked at a discolored portion of the counter as though it were the most fascinating thing in the shop. “It really meant a lot to have you stick up for me.”

 

“Of course!” I could hear the smile in his voice. “What are friends for?”

 

_Friends._

 

I liked the sound of that.

 

I shook myself. “Come on!” I said with a grin. “Let me show you where you can change into that _incredible_ shirt.”


	5. Chapter 5

 

Late that night, I heard a tapping by the door. I sighed and leaned the mop against a nearby table, trudging to the door.

 

“We’re closed,” I called out. “Come back again tom—Sparkles!” I exclaimed, finally getting close enough to the tinted panes to see who was outside. I quickly unlocked the door.

 

“Hey! What are you doing here so late?” I leaned to look past him. “Where are your friends?”

 

“I gave ‘em the slip,” Ambrose said with far too much glee. “They’re probably still combing the Skymall for me. Can I come in?”

 

“Oh, sure!” I stepped aside to let him pass. “Sparkles the spy, huh?” I teased, eyeing today’s glittery attire. “I can see you’ve already mastered keeping a low profile.”

 

He raised his arms and gave a pointed look to the empty space behind him. “My results speak for themselves!”

 

“What about you?” he inquired, lowering his arms and glancing around. “It seems pretty deserted in here.”

 

“Oh, yeah. I had to stay late tonight to mop up. I was just about done when you showed up.”

 

“Ah! Well, this won’t take a moment,” he said, reaching into the small bag he carried. “I just wanted to return the shirt your aunt so generously loaned me.” He pulled out the novelty shirt, freshly washed and clean with the words “Caution: Contents Hot” visible on the front.

 

“Oh, no!” I protested. “It was a gift.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Definitely. Even if it wasn’t, I’d buy it for you. I owe you at least a tacky t-shirt for what you did,” I added.

 

“All right, then,” he acquiesced. “If you insist.”

 

“I insist. Besides, it suits you,” I said, struggling not to laugh at the memory of him in the oversized t-shirt, attempting in vain to fix his coffee-soaked hair.

 

A streak of light illuminated the small window to my left, and I was struck with a sudden memory.

 

“The Kuiper belt!” I exclaimed, practically jumping with excitement. “I almost forgot!”

 

A quizzical expression crossed Ambrose’s face. “The Kuiper belt?”

 

“Yeah, we’re passing by tonight! It’s gonna be amazing. Come on, we can see it together!”

 

Ambrose still looked confused. “But we’re nowhere near the Kuiper belt—”

 

I ignored him and snatched his hand, dragging him out the back door of the shop. “Come on! We’ll miss it!”

 

As soon as I exited the door, I gasped. Usually, the viewscreen “sky” overhead was covered in some visual facsimile of earth weather—a holdover from when the inhabitants of the station had all been fresh Earthers and needed a reminder of what their old atmosphere looked like. For special events like this, however, the Captain dropped the projection and let us see the real night sky.

 

And it was magnificent.

 

The darkest black I’d ever seen, dotted with a thousand shining stars—a breathtaking backdrop to the evening’s show: hundreds of tiny space rocks atomizing overhead, leaving burning trails of colorful light as they skimmed through our shields. It was beautiful.

 

I laughed in delight, pulling Ambrose further away from the shop before dropping his hand.

 

“Come on!” I called, running across the deserted street. “We can see better from here!”

 

I placed my foot on the lower rung of the ladder attached to an old power distribution box—and almost jumped out of my skin. A horn, one of the excessively loud horns attached to an old transport truck, had blared out right behind me, immediately followed by the crashing sound of two objects colliding.

 

Crashes were rare, but they did happen—usually when drivers overrode the autopilot. A really awful one had happened once when someone walked in a transpo lane without looking.

 

When someone…

 

My heart dropped into my feet.

 

I spun around, just in time to see a dilapidated transport truck speeding away. Against my will, I processed the scene in front of me. Ambrose’s head was resting against the curb of the street.

 

The rest of him was on the other side.

 

* * *

 

My nervous system was still deciding whether I should scream, cry, faint or flee when some small part of me realized that since his head was on the opposite side of the street from the rest of him, there really should be more blood. A lot of blood, in fact. Reality would demand at least _some_ amount of blood, but right now, the amount of blood was exactly zero.

 

The other factor to consider was that his head seemed to be talking.

 

“--should have their transportation permit revoked,” the second half of a sentence filtered through the muddled and misfiring processes of my brain. “Someone could have been really hurt.”

 

I found myself slowly advancing toward where his head lay resting against the curb, drawn against my will by some seemingly inexorable force. Slowly, slowly I reached down, tilting his unattached head toward me and lifting it with one hand on either side of his pale face. I was dimly aware of lights blinking somewhere beneath the stub of his neck. His golden eyes were open—not wide and staring, but alert and playful, almost as if he had just walked through the door of the coffeeshop and seen me standing behind the counter.

 

He _smiled._

 

“I’ve never been a fan of giving up, but you know what they say,” the disembodied head said from my hands. “Quit while you’re a- _head._ ” He emphasized the last word with a wink.

 

My mind, faced with more incomprehensibilities than any reasonable brain could be expected to withstand within a thirty-second timeframe, finally arrived at a decision. I screamed and fainted.

 

* * *

 

“—ish? Trish!” A concerned voice filtered through the thick fog clouding my mind. I slowly opened my eyes and came face-to-face with the attractive head of Ambrose. But _only_ the head.

 

I shot up like a rocket, then brought a hand to my head when the world tilted.

 

“Whoa, slow down,” Ambrose’s voice came from below me. “You hit your head a bit when you fell—”

 

“Oh my gosh, you’re an android. You’re an android you’re an androidyou’reanandroid—You’re actually, _really_ an android, _HOW_ are you an android—”

 

“Okay. Okay! Trish!”

 

My attention snapped back to the head laying in the street, which closed its eyes as if to gather its thoughts.

 

“Trish—in an incredible twist of irony, I need you to pull yourself together.”

 

“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry! Are….uh,” I stared at the rest of his body where it lay across the street. “Are you... okay?”

 

“I’ll be fine,” he reassured me. “I just need a little help. Can you get me back inside?” He glanced nervously around the road. “Preferably before the next truck comes?”

 

I nodded. “Sure. Yeah. Sure, I can do that.”

 

The next minutes passed in a haze of shock. It was one of the strangest sequences of events of my life, carefully dragging the body of my friend into a coffeeshop while his disembodied head gave me directions from a coffee table. There was a brief, awkward attempt to lift his limp body onto a chair that was thwarted by my lack of strength and coordination, whereupon we reached the mutual conclusion that he should be leaned up against the wall. I stared numbly at his headless body.

 

“Now what?”

 

“Well, we don’t want to get a _head_ of ourselves.”

 

“...”

 

“You’re right. I really need to get my head in the game.”

 

“ _Ambrose.”_

 

“Sorry, sorry. I make jokes when I’m nervous. And I’ll be fine, really, as long as I get reconnected to my body before my auxiliary power supply runs out and my neural pattern disappears forever... Speaking of which, maybe we should move a little faster.”

 

Fortunately for both of us, it was a surprisingly simple task to reattach his head. At his instruction, I adjusted a few connections that were bent in his fall and held his head above his neck. Once it got close enough, it seemed to pull itself into the appropriate position, connecting with a brief series of clicks and hisses.

 

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed deeply. “Much better.”

 

I made a small noise, my brain still struggling to catch up with the events of the past few minutes.

 

“You’ve still got a...” I started, gesturing toward his neck.

 

“Mm?”

 

“It’s like there’s a cut that goes all the way around your neck,” I explained. It almost looked like the seam on an old plastic doll.

 

“Oh, right.”

 

He reached up drew a finger across the cut on his neck. It glowed with a soft light where he touched, following his finger as it moved and leaving perfect, seamless skin in its wake. He looked…. Normal. Like the past few minutes had never happened.

 

He stretched his hand out in front of me and wiggled his fingers. “See? Good as new,” he smiled. His arm suddenly dropped to floor at his side with a thunk. He stared at it.

 

“Well, as soon as my diagnostic program finishes,” he amended, staring at his arm as though trying to will the uncooperative appendage into motion.

 

I stayed crouched on the floor in front of him, silently staring at him.

 

He was fine.

 

He was an _android_.

 

The almost silent sound of a speeding transport truck came unbidden to my mind, followed by the blaring horn and the horrible, solid sound of impact that was sure to haunt my dreams for months.

 

But he was fine.

 

He was sitting on the floor in front of me, dressed like gangly purple disco ball—but all in one piece, cracking jokes, and he was _fine_.

 

“Ha!” he said, victoriously. His index finger twitched. “See that? Diagnostic’s almost done!” He looked up at me and the pleased expression on his face instantly faded to concern. “Trish? What’s—”

 

I cut him off by pitching forward to wrap him in a hug so tight it almost hurt.

 

“I thought you were dead,” I whispered.

 

“It’d take more than that,” he reassured. I was almost surprised to feel the rumble of his voice in his chest. I’d half-expected him to feel solid and cool, but instead, he was… almost soft, with the firm feel of lean muscle beneath his skin. Synthetic muscle, I supposed, but the effect was the same.

 

“You're warm,” I mumbled into his shoulder.

 

“It’s my power reactor,” he explained. “There's a heat pump that spreads the warmth throughout my body for dissipation.”

 

Wow. “Whoever made you really thought of everything.”

 

I felt him laugh slightly. “I have to say, I _am_ pretty amazing.”

 

I squeezed my eyes shut and tightened my grip on him momentarily. “I'm so glad you're okay.”

 

I felt his arms wrap around me, enveloping me in his warmth. The feeling was… strange. Comforting, and incredibly secure. Like nothing bad could ever happen to me.

 

“So am I,” he said.

 

With a tinge of reluctance, I finally released the hug and sank down next to him, leaning my back against the wall to mirror his pose. Somehow, that hug had anchored me back to reality. It didn’t make sense—nothing made sense to me, anymore—but it didn’t have to. Reality, as it turned out, was far bigger than the limits of my own understanding. The realization was… freeing. Scary, but freeing.

 

There was a brief, comfortable silence as we both stared at the antique cat-shaped clock that adorned the far wall. Its wooden tail ticked back and forth almost hypnotically to mark the passing seconds.

 

“So,” I broke the silence. “You're really an android, huh.”

 

He smiled. “I am.”

 

I bit back a mischievous grin. “Why didn't you ever tell me?” I asked innocently.

 

He swung his head toward me so quickly that if he hadn't been an android, I would have been concerned about whiplash.

 

“But—you—I _did!_ ” he practically squeaked.

 

“Hey now, don't get too excited,” I said soothingly. “Wouldn't want you to _lose your head._ ”

 

He closed his eyes and dropped his head to his chest with a strangled little groan of frustration, but I could see a smile curling his lips.

 

“You really are insufferable, you know?” he sighed, leaning his perfectly coiffed head back against the wall.

 

I smiled widely, leaning over to bump his shoulder with my own.

 

“I know.”

 


	6. Interlude 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ambrose wasn't quite as sneaky as he thought.

Two blocks away, two suited and well-muscled men sat at an outdoor cafe, staring at a small screen that lay on the table between them. A single light pulsed in the middle of the screen.

 

“Good thing we put that tracker in his jacket,” Tony remarked, taking a sip of his herbal tea. The lady at the counter said it was a natural de-stresser. He’d resisted the urge to order a triple.

 

Dmitri grunted in assent.

 

“You don’t think we went too far, do you? It’s just, that incident with the Guardians…” Ambrose had been in real danger that time, whether he admitted it to himself or not. Honestly, it was sheer luck he’d even survived.

 

Dmitri somehow managed to shrug using only an eyebrow.

 

“Mm.”

 

Ambrose’s most recent grand escape came to mind, and Tony gave a huff of amusement at the memory. “That kid. He looked so proud of himself, giving us the slip.”

 

Dmitri nodded, stirring the flowery concoction in his clear glass mug and taking a careful sip.

 

“Someone really should tell him hiding behind a potted plant doesn’t work if the plant suddenly starts walking across the room,” Tony continued. He glanced down at the tracker, which pulsed reassuringly. On, off, on, off—Dmitri gently set down his cup—off…

 

Still off...

 

Tony jumped up and snatched the screen, nearly upsetting the table in the process. Dmitri clutched at his mug in an ineffective attempt to prevent it from sloshing out onto the table, shooting Tony an indignant look as the other man tapped rapidly on the screen.

 

“Come on, come on!” he muttered. “Don’t do this to me—”

 

The little light started pulsing again. Tony dropped back into the chair with a deep sigh of relief, and was met with Dmitri’s reproachful stare.

 

“Sorry,” Tony offered, a tad sheepishly.

 

Dmitri grunted.

 

“You owe me new tea.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So..... it's been a while. xD Unfortunately I can't say when the next chapter will be, since I haven't written it, but hopefully it won't be - *checks calendar* uh. Four months again. >_>
> 
> Especially since we're almost at the end! There will probably only be one more chapter (or two, if it ends up being too long). Anyway, hope this was at least somewhat worth the wait!

“That one.”

 

“No, we just saw that one.”

 

“So? I liked it.”

 

I sighed, shoving the disc a little further toward the reject pile and leaning over Ambrose to grab another stack.

 

“We’re not watching Star Trek _again_ just because you like Data.”

 

“Trish,” he almost whined, “that’s unfair. Besides, you know Deanna’s my favorite _._ ”

 

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I know. But we watched that season _twice,_ and we still have all these to get through!” I exclaimed, gesturing with some frustration to the pile of yet-unwatched film discs strewn around the floor of the coffee shop. It was well after closing on a Thursday night—aka, movie night. I supplied the films, my aunt (unwittingly) supplied the ancient projector I’d found in the supply closet, and Ambrose provided the innocence of all pre-spacefaring earth media. Not a lot of people still enjoyed 2D films after the advent of holonovels, but what can I say—I like the classics.

 

“You know,” I continued, poking at the pile of discs as I continued searching for a likely candidate, “It’s probably a good thing Troi’s your favorite. I guess it would be a little on-brand if your favorite character was an android.”

 

Ambrose raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t your favorite characters human?”

 

“…okay, fair point.”

 

I shuffled another disc to the side and picked up a colorful case. “Ohh, how about this one?” I held it up.

 

“ _The Avengers,”_ Ambrose read out loud. “Is it any good?”

 

“It’s great! For an old movie.”

 

“Are there any androids?”

 

I rolled my eyes. “No. Well, yes, kind of, in a sequel—but that one’s not as good.”

 

“Sequels never are,” Ambrose said sagely.

 

While Ambrose put in the disc, I sank deep into the cushions of the sofa and suppressed a shiver—the shop got surprisingly chilly when it wasn’t filled with people. I reached for the mostly decorative blanket that was thrown across the far arm of the sofa as Ambrose returned, offering him one end.

 

“Oh, no thanks,” he politely declined. “I don’t really feel cold.”

 

“Yeah, but you’ll warm up the rest of the blanket with your heat dissipation thingy.”

 

He gave an amused sigh and took the corner of the blanket, draping it over his knees to create a pocket of slowly-warming air between us.

 

“If you’re cold, why don’t we watch these are your place?”

 

I froze.

 

“Nah,” I said, with a casual laugh. “That wouldn’t be any fun. The screen is way better here.”

 

Ambrose looked at me for a second as though debating how to respond. “Okay.”

 

“Hey, maybe we could go to the theater sometime,” I offered. “They don't have my exceptional selection of classics, but the seats are comfy.”

 

"Sure," he responded with a grin. "I'd like that."

 

I hummed in agreeable assent, then wiggled closer to him underneath the blanket.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked with an amused lilt.

 

“Getting closer to my space heater.” I puffed out a laugh, belatedly realizing the pun. “Get it? You’re my heater, and we’re in space...”

 

“No, I get it,” Ambrose responded impassively.

 

“I realize you might be new to this, being an android and all, but you’re supposed to laugh at jokes.”

 

“I’m afraid my programming only allows me to laugh at _funny_ jokes.”

 

I glared at him, then wrapped myself around his warm arm. “Just start the movie,” I sulked into his sleeve.

 

“Can I have my arm back?”

 

“No.”

 

* * *

 

I screwed my eyes shut and dropped my head to the counter with a loud _thud._ My aunt… was going to _kill_ me.

 

“Uh… Trish?” a familiar voice called. Great, he was here. _And_ now my head hurt.

 

I felt a poke in my shoulder. “Triiish?”

 

“Not now,” I groaned. “I’m dying.” I sighed, reluctantly pulling my face away from the counter.

 

“More accurately, I’m going to be _murdered_. By my aunt, no less.”

 

“Um. Can I help?”

 

“Not unless you know someone who can give me a new identity and a ticket off-station in the next three hours.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Unless you were asking if my _aunt_ needs help, in which case: A, you’re a traitor; and B, I’m sure she can handle killing me all on her own.”

 

I dropped my head back down to the counter. _Thunk._ “Ow.”

 

“Aren’t you going to tell me the reason for your impending doom?” He had the nerve to sound amused, the traitor.

 

Wordlessly, I slid a flyer across the counter to him.

 

“Live music tonight,” he read aloud. “Hey, that sounds fun! Who’s playing?”

 

I peeled myself off the counter again. “That’s the problem,” I explained. “I never booked anyone.”

 

Ambrose’s eyebrows climbed into his hairline. “Oh.”

 

“Ughh,” I groaned miserably. “And things were starting to go well! I _finally_ learned how to make almost all the drinks, I haven’t been late in two months, I even started helping train part-timers...and then BAM, just a _li_ _ii_ _ttle_ bit more responsibility and I blow it.” I crumpled down behind the counter until I was just a pair of eyes peering over the edge. “You never answered if you know anyone who can fake an identity.”

 

Ambrose laughed. “You won’t need to!”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Don’t you see? I _can_ help you! You’re only talking to the most famous pop star in the known universe, after all,” he said with a suave lean on the counter.

 

I—well—huh. I guessed that could work. He kept saying what a big star he was; I supposed it was about time I found out for myself. It didn’t hurt that I was desperate, either.

 

I narrowed my eyes at him.

 

“You’re hired.”

 

* * *

 

He _was_ good.

 

Like, really _really_ good.

 

So good I kept pouring coffee onto the counter instead of into the cup because he was just that distracting, good.

 

I didn’t really know what to expect when he showed up with a portable keyboard, microphone, and a shirt that was even more sparkly than usual, but man—at this point, I could almost believe he was as popular as he claimed. His voice was smooth and soft, the perfect volume, the perfect pitch—and it had this almost magnetic pull to it that kept my concentration from where it belonged (namely, the scalding hot coffeepot in my hands). When the set had started, he’d instantly grabbed everyone’s attention with an impossibly catchy tune that even had me, Grump of the Century, smiling and nodding along to the beat. Now that he was winding down, however, he’d segued into some slower, more heartfelt songs.

 

I leaned forward on the counter, propping my chin on one hand and let myself get just the slightest bit lost in the music. The cheap spotlights we kept for these special events made his shirt sparkle and gleam like wearable stardust, and the effect paired with his voice was… mesmerizing. I don’t know how he did it, but he seemed to have this supernatural power to make everyone feel like he was singing directly to them.

 

My gaze wandered up from his shirt to his face, and I started when I saw his golden eyes staring directly at me. A small smile curved his lips upward even as he sang, and he _winked._

 

I nearly lost my balance.

 

A snicker from my nearest co-worker reached my ears, and I spun around, willing my face to stop burning.

 

“Yes?” I demanded in what I hoped was an intimidating tone. “What’s so funny?”

 

She stifled another laugh and went back to her latte. “Nothing,” she sing-songed.

 

_Whatever._

 

I glanced back and noticed, with a slight pang of something alarmingly similar to disappointment, that he had returned his attention to the crowd before him. I noticed with some distaste that a small number of girls had made their way as close as possible to the small stage area, hanging on his every lyric with stars in their eyes. My distaste grew when I noticed Ambrose smiling repeatedly in their direction.

I set down a coffee mug with considerably more force than necessary, then winced at the sound and glanced toward my co-worker. She shot me a disapproving look.

 

“Sorry.”

 

I made it a point not to look at Sparkles for the rest of the show.

 

* * *

 

Considering my sudden and inexplicably sour mood, I would have been happy if Ambrose had left when his assistants had, toting his equipment behind them—but of course, he didn't. Instead, he'd shed his jacket and started to help me pick up the dishes and debris from what was, to be frank, probably the most successful music night in the history of the shop. He really was infuriatingly nice. I scrubbed at a coffee stain vengefully.

 

“So,” he asked, breaking our long silence as he cleared a mug, “Did you your aunt like the show?”

 

She had, in fact. I’d seen her standing in the open doorway of her office while Ambrose was singing, surveying the gathered crowd with an almost pleased expression. She’d caught me looking and gave me an approving nod before disappearing back into her office—for her, the gesture was practically effusive.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Good! I guess you won’t meet that untimely demise after all.”

 

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth despite myself. “Guess not.”

 

He nudged my shoulder with his, smiling. “Did _you_ like the show?”

 

An image sprang into my mind of him leaning into the crowd, hand over his heart, singing directly to the teenage girls in the front row who looked like they might faint from excitement. I abruptly reached for the last mug at the table and spun toward the counter.

 

“Yep.” I practically bit the word out, immediately feeling a hint of remorse at the harshness of my tone.

 

“You’re…” I sighed, starting to pile the dirty dishes onto the counter near the washer. “You’re really good.”

 

“Trish,” he said hesitantly, and I didn't have to look behind me to see his brow furrowed in that cute, confused way. “Is something wrong? You seem a bit... tense.” A pause, something that might have been a shrug. “I thought you might be happy.”

 

_Ugh._

 

I was being a jerk again, wasn't I.

 

I shook my head, trying to dislodge my unwanted feelings. He didn't have to save my bacon tonight, but he had—and despite my childish behavior, I really was grateful.

 

Time to change the tone.

 

I spun around to lean back against the counter with my arms folded.

 

“Sparkles, I have something very serious to discuss with you,” I said, realizing belatedly that the nickname rather undercut my serious tone.

 

He seemed concerned. “Oh?”

 

I nodded. “You're _terrible_ at flirting.”

 

He laughed, visibly relaxing. “I'm afraid there are several million lifeforms who disagree with you on that count,” he said, leaning on the opposing counter. “Do you have any idea how many proposals I have to turn down? At one show alone?”

 

“Mm-hm. Listen, I've seen you perform now, and I have to say—you are a _massive_ cheeseball.” I leaned forward and adopted an emotional expression, covering my heart with one hand and stretching the other toward an invisible audience: “ _Carry your heart into my arms, that's where you belong—_ ”

 

He broke me off with a laugh. “That wasn't flirting! That was just... showmanship,” he explained. “You have to play a part in those kinds of songs.”

 

I narrowed my eyes. “Uh-huh.”

 

“What, you don't believe I can actually flirt?”

 

I raised my hands in mock defense. “Hey, I call 'em like I see 'em.”

 

“I can!”

 

“Prove it,” I demanded.

 

“How?”

 

“Give me your best shot, and I'll tell you what you're doing wrong,” I said. _Stars, what was I_ _saying_ _? Had I lost my mind?_

 

He shrugged. “If you insist.” His playful expression suddenly shifted into something equally pleasant, but somehow softer, more intent. He took a step forward into my personal space, his eyes fixed on mine, and I forgot how to breathe.

 

“Trish...”

 

 _Oh this was a mistake, a terrible_ terrible _mistake—_

 

“Nevermind!” I said with considerably more volume than necessary, given our close proximity. Our far _too_ _close_ proximity. He started back.

 

“Hey, I thought you were going to teach me how to be better at this?”

 

“I changed my mind. You're hopeless.”

 

He didn't say anything, just raised one eyebrow with a little smirk that was far too knowing for his own good.

 

I cleared my throat, glancing purposefully at the clock. “Hey, it's getting pretty late. Don't you need to get back?”

 

 

“Oh, right!” he said, “I suppose I should.” He picked up his jacket. “See you tomorrow for movie night?”

 

“Actually,” I rushed out, feeling my face get redder with every word. “There’s, uh, there’s a movie that just came out that sounds pretty good, and I thought you might want to see it. Maybe. In the theater? With me. And maybe we could walk around the skymall first, get some ice cream or something—well, me, not you, because you don’t… you know. Eat…”

 

I trailed off, wishing desperately that a stray asteroid would crash through the ceiling and obliterate me on the spot. _Why_ was I so nervous? I had brought up the idea of going to the theater just the other day, for pete's sake—it wasn't a groundbreaking concept.

 

“Sounds fun!” he said with a bright smile, and I started to breathe again. “How about we meet by the fountain in the middle of the skymall? Around two?”

 

“...okay,” I managed.

 

He smiled again. “It’s a date!”

 

The word rattled around in my strangely empty brain for a moment. _Date…_ _date._ _It’s a date. It’s a DATE?_

 

I scrambled for words, waving my hands in the air. “Oh, no no, not a date,” I laughed awkwardly. “Just two friends! Getting together, seeing a movie! As friends. You know.”

 

My awkwardness didn’t seem to faze him at all—in fact, he had the audacity to laugh. “Just a phrase.” He started to leave, stopping at the door to to give me a final, brilliant smile and a wave. “See you tomorrow!”

 

I gave a half-hearted wave back, trying to command my face into something resembling a smile in return. “See you tomorrow,” I said.

 

I sank into the nearest chair, plopped my folded arms on the table in front of me and then buried my burning face in them.

 

A date. I’d just asked my best friend on a _date_. My best friend, who was an _android._

 

And he’d said _yes._

 

I was so screwed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up five months late with starbucks* hhhhhHHi.... 
> 
> So uh, I realized the last chapter was getting l o n g (for me, anyway), so here is what amounts to the first half.

Four days after the coffeeshop’s music night, the morning rush had slowed to a trickle and I was occupying myself scrubbing the spotless exterior of our latte machine with malevolent fury. My coworker gave a concerned glace in my direction, perhaps wondering if I was trying to scrub a hole through stainless steel using only a terrycloth bar towel, but snapped her mouth shut and found sudden interest in the overhead menu after I made eye contact.

 

To say the much-anticipated “date”—er, meeting—had been a disaster wouldn’t be entirely accurate. You see, in order for a date— _meeting_ —to be a disaster, there actually has to _be_ a meeting. Two people, same place, same time. You’d think four-dimensional coordinates wouldn’t be too difficult for an _android_ to handle, but here we are.

 

Or rather, there I was. For six hours.

 

Alone.

 

I made a frustrated sound and flung the bar towel as hard as I could toward the floor on the other end of the counter, but it only managed to travel about an arm’s length away before _floomph_ -ing open and flopping anticlimactically onto the floor. It was a supremely unsatisfying expression of my anger. I seethed.

 

My co-worker raised an eyebrow. “Are you—”

 

“ _Yes,_ I’m going to pick it up,” I snapped.

 

I bent to pick up the towel, barely registering the jingle that announced the arrival of a customer. Good. Great. Dandy. Just what I wanted, a customer. Everyone should just go _home,_ and then _I_ could go home, and then I wouldn’t have to hang around here where the stupid couch and the stupid coffeemaker and the stupid t-shirts all kept reminding me of—

 

Someone cleared their throat awkwardly above me.

 

— _Ambrose_ _._

 

My brain did a backflip out of my skull, landing in my stomach and sloshing around just enough make me nauseous.

 

“ _You._ ”

 

He gave a tentative smile and an awkward wave. “Hello, Trish.”

 

I was angry. I was relieved. I was happy. I was _pissed._

 

I threw the towel in his face.

 

It landed much more satisfyingly than it had on the floor, and I bit back the instinctual urge to apologize as he lifted one corner of the towel to reveal a hurt expression.

 

“I probably deserved that, from your perspective,” he said, resignedly.

 

The urge to apologize disappeared in a puff of smoke. “From _any_ perspective.”

 

“Trish, let me explain--” I cut him off with an upraised hand, steeling myself against the hurt expression that had yet to leave his eyes.

 

“Not interested.”

 

“But I need to--”

 

“--need to what?” I broke in. “Lie to me some more? Turns out you’re way better at that than I would’ve given you credit for.” I gestured toward him. “The puppy-dog expression really sells it, y’know.”

 

His expression shifted to confusion, then realization, and the little bit of bitter hope I didn’t know I still had splashed down into the pit of my heart where our friendship used to live.

 

“I swear I can explain everything if you just give me a chance--”

 

“Save it, _Sparkles_ ,” I almost hissed. The venom injected into that formerly endearing nickname burned on my lips. It felt... wrong. But then, nothing had felt right for the past few days.

 

“I looked you up on the Net.” I scoffed, unsure if the mocking sound was directed at him or me. “Finally. I don’t know why I never did it before. You know what I found?” I leaned across the counter, still burning with ~~rejection~~ ~~betrayal~~ ~~sadness~~ anger, to drink in his wounded expression. My anger only increased when I realized it brought me no satisfaction.

 

“I can imagine.” The words sounded defeated.

 

“ _Nothing,_ ” I bit out. “Absolutely _nothing._ No Ambrose. No Adonis. No glitter-covered, cheesy ‘god of pop.’” I jabbed a finger toward his chest, realizing only now his shirt was remarkably subdued compared to his typical fare, and his normally perfect posture was somewhat rounded. I brushed it aside, re-centering myself. “You don’t exist.”

 

“Not _here_ ,” he broke in, almost desperately. “Not yet. If I ever will--” He exhaled, running a hand through his—huh, _not_ perfectly styled hair. That was a first. “It’s—it’s a little complicated.”

 

His words processed, slowly. “ _What?_ ” I blinked, shook my head. “No, no. Forget it.” I held up a hand. “Not interested in whatever _this_ is.”

 

I started to turn away, then nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt a hand grab my own—strong enough to stop me, but still strangely gentle. I looked down in shock, then back up to his face. “Trish,” he said, the desperation was becoming plainer now in his face and voice. “ _Please_ , just listen to me—”

 

I snatched my hand back, forcing coldness into my tone.

 

“I’m busy.”

 

 

* * *

 

He didn’t leave.

 

He sat there, at a small table in the corner with a view of the counter, for hours. At one point he purchased a coffee—from one of my coworkers, I wouldn’t go to the register when I saw him approach—and just… held it. To avoid being removed as a non-paying customer, I supposed. I half wished I’d thought of it earlier, because I could _feel_ his eyes on me. It was driving me crazy.

 

The lunch rush passed, the mid-afternoon pick-me-ups shuffled by, the post-dinner beverage seekers trickled into and out of the shop. It was dark now. He was still there, sitting, watching, waiting, an almost pleading expression faintly visible on his face. I shored up my crumbling resolve and returned my attention to refilling one of the soy milk canisters.

 

I felt the slight nudge of an elbow and looked up to see my coworker standing next to me.

 

“Yes?” I said, trying—and probably failing—to keep the bite of my tone down to a near-civil level.

 

“Trish,” she said, a hint of gentle reprimand in her voice. She nodded her head in Ambrose’s direction. “Go talk to him.”

 

I bristled immediately, leveling her with a glare that could have boiled water at thirty paces. To her credit, she only sighed. “Come on,” she said. “Whatever he did, he’s clearly sorry about it. He’s been here literally all day—I don’t think he even got up to use the bathroom.”

 

 _Well, of course he didn’t,_ I thought. _He’s an android._

 

The simple clarity, the obviousness of the thought almost startled me. I knew so much about him. The way he walked, the way he smiled. What would make him laugh, which TV shows would make him curl up in a ball on the couch while vehemently protesting that he was _not_ scared, this was an advanced android maneuver that had to be performed sometimes to stretch the fibers that made up the synthetic muscles of his back. I knew how to _reattach his head,_ for pete’s sake.

 

I knew him so well.

 

He knew _me_ so well.

 

And he’d been lying to me the whole time.

 

It would have been one thing if he’d been a marginally successful musician, or even a struggling artist with a few poorly-advertised albums to his name. But I couldn’t find him _anywhere._ He was a ghost.

 

There was probably a reason. There had to be. But why wouldn’t he just _tell_ me, why would he insist that he was something he wasn’t, why did I _believe_ him—

 

I dropped my head against the espresso machine with a _thunk_.

 

“Fine,” I said, hissing the word past my clenched teeth. “I’ll talk to him.”

 

* * *

 

I dropped heavily into the seat opposite Ambrose and slouched against the back of the chair, arms folded.

 

“Trish.” His face was so open and hopeful and—and faintly _sad—_ that my simmering anger wavered.

 

“You have sixty seconds,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “This better be good.”

 

His eyebrows raised. “It’s… going to be difficult to fit everything in to just one minute.”

 

“Try.”

 

He took a deep breath—unnecessary, but apparently steadying—and ran a hand through his hair. “Time really isn’t on our side today,” he muttered.

 

“Time? You’re going to talk to _me_ about time, after you left me for six hours at the Skymall?”

 

“Six--” he repeated, wide-eyed. “You waited that long?”

 

I clamped my mouth shut. “Yeah, well.” I slouched further in my chair. “I’m an idiot,” I mumbled.

 

“I did too,” he said.

 

“You were waiting,” I repeated, deadpan.

 

“Yes.”

 

“For me. For six hours.”

 

“Well, six hours, twelve minutes, and forty-seven seconds,” he amended, then tapped the side of his head almost self-consciously. “Android.”

 

“Even if I believed you—which I don’t, by the way,” I clarified, leaning forward, “where _exactly_ were you waiting? Because it wasn’t the Skymall. I never saw you, and _believe me,_ I was looking _very_ carefully.”

 

“I was at the Skymall,” he persisted.

 

I raised my hands in disbelief, then flopped my arms on the table in front of me. “What did you do, get the wrong day?”

 

“No—right day, right time. I was at the Skymall for six hours waiting for you, and you were at the Skymall for six hours waiting for me.”

 

I stared at him, blinking. “Either you’re lying through your teeth, or one of us desperately needs a new glasses prescription.”

 

“No, it’s”—he sighed again—“it’s going to be difficult to believe, but—”

 

“Oh, it already is,” I assured him.

 

He made a small, frustrated noise. “We were in the right place at the right time, only it wasn’t… _quite_ the right place. I didn’t realize it myself until I tried to come talk to you the next day, and _I couldn’t find the coffeeshop._ ”

 

“Try asking for directions?” I inquired, dryly.

 

“No, you don’t understand. I couldn’t find it at all. It just wasn’t here anymore, some records store was in its place. At first I thought I had the wrong street, but then I asked around and no one had ever heard of it. I finally looked it up on the Net and found… nothing. It’s like the shop never existed.”

 

Something about this was starting to sound uncomfortably familiar. I shifted in my seat.

 

“And why should I believe something that sounds so _conveniently_ familiar to what I said happened when I tried to look you up?”

 

“Because it’s true?”

 

I gave him a supremely unimpressed look, and he sighed.

 

“Have you heard of the Rozenblit theory?”

 

Of course I had, I wasn’t an idiot. But—oh. I saw where he was going with this. Or trying to go with it, anyway.

 

“That theory specifically says that alternate timelines cannot intersect,” I said, skeptically.

 

“Yes, well. It was a theory.” He looked around, taking in the empty shop. It was after closing now, and my coworker must have left sometime after we started talking. He stood, walking over to the empty coat rack and lifting it off the floor. He took another step toward the door and dropped the rack.

 

“This is real life,” he finished.

 

I winced, bracing myself for a loud clatter that never came. Instead, with a nearly inaudible hum, half of the coat rack came to rest on the floor.

 

The rest of it was gone.

 

I nearly fell out of my chair.

 

“What— _where—_ ”

 

“To the other side,” he responded. “My side.”

 

With another staticy hum, he pulled the coat rack free, and its full, undamaged length stood before us. He closed his eyes for a moment. A burst of electricity emanated from his hands and crackled along the length of the metal rack.

 

“It’s magnetized now,” he explained. “I downloaded a lot of information on physics over the past days. Theoretically, this _should_ work...”

 

He dropped the rack again, and instead of disappearing, a strange, distorted boundary arced into existence around it—almost reaching up to the ceiling of the shop, and just as wide. Oddly enough, it seemed centered around our entryway.

 

“Ha!” he exclaimed. “It _did_ work.”

 

I blinked several times, squinted, rubbed my eyes, and squinted again.

 

The… portal? Archway? Interdimensional rift? Whatever it was—it was still there. The edges shimmered gently.

 

“Heh,” I managed, and it sounded a little shaky even to my ears. “Nice trick.”

 

“Trish,” he said softly, coming close enough to take one of my hands. I was distantly surprised my lack of resistance, but then, I was probably a little hung up on the apparent tear in the fabric of reality a few feet away from us. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not lying—about this, or anything. I’ve never lied to you. I didn’t want to believe it either, but it just makes sense.” He spoke earnestly, leaning forward. “You’ve never seen technology like mine, so you couldn’t believe I was an android—but I am. You said LevRail was just a failed theory, but where I come from it’s the most widely used transportation network on _every_ space station in the galaxy.” My mind was spinning, but he forged ahead. “The meteor shower the night I was hit by that transport—it was impossible! Where I come from, we’re lightyears away from the Kuiper belt; but there it was, streaking through your outer shields. And then there’s—well, there’s me. I’m the most famous musician in—well, _ever—_ and yet no-one here has even _heard_ of me.”

 

“At least you’re humble about it,” I mumbled halfheartedly. I may have been barely keeping afloat in this new influx of absurd, unbelievable information, but I latched onto the opportunity for a teasing quip like a lifeline in a storm.

 

“I’m serious,” he said. His eyes lit up with a sudden idea. “Hey, do you have your comm?” I nodded, bewildered. “Try looking me up again now that the portal is back.”

 

I gave him a sidelong glance, but pulled out my comm anyway, tapping a few words into the search bar. The results filtered in; same as before. Baby name lists, a few social media pages, an article on “ambrosia”--nothing about music at all. The hopes I didn’t know had been raised sank deep into disappointment, and I turned my screen toward Ambrose with a skeptical eyebrow raised.

 

He seemed unfazed. “Walk a little closer to the portal,” he suggested.

 

I sighed, but did so. Suddenly, the results on my screen fuzzed out, and were replaced with new results in a slightly different, but familiar format—and every result was painted with his face. Entertainment articles, news stories, interviews, ticketing information—everything from rumors to concert dates adorned my screen in a splash of sparkling purple. I stared, blinked, refreshed the screen a few times—tried a different search combination, which pulled up even _more_ results—but it was real.

 

Somehow, it was real.

 

I stared at my comm, then at the coat rack that still lay partially through the portal and the shimmering, distorted border arching around it.

 

“Well,” I said, eloquently.

 

“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been waiting for the "interdimensional rifts" tag on this fic to become relevant for AN ENTIRE YEAR
> 
> So yeah, this was planned. I'm just the world's slowest writer. You could probably hire a snail to travel from key-to-key and it would be faster than my writing. :') HOPEFULLY I'LL GET THIS ACTUALLY FINISHED WITHIN THE MONTH?? (miracles can happen!)


End file.
